


body to flame

by timefighter



Series: TILL DEATH — dream smp [15]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: #RIP, :), Alexis | Quackity Is Mexican Dream, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anyways, Author is a Wilbur Soot Apologist, Author needs therapy, Gen, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Mexican Dream, OR IS HE, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Pain, Rain with no slash, Song: Body To Flame (Lucy Dacus), Spain with no s, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot-centric, also fuck canon, and it shows, author has been looping body to flame, author hates c!dream with a passion, campaign no cam, champagne no cham, fuck c!dream, i cant think of any more pain hahas, mexican dream is also dead, mexican dream my beloved, miss that mf so much, no beta we die like wilbur soot, no he actually is, or is he??, paint with no t, schlatt is dead rip, tommy’s also dead rip, wilbur’s dead rip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timefighter/pseuds/timefighter
Summary: wilbur’s pissed that he has short hair. oh, and also that he has no control, he can’t talk to his little brother, and he’s fucking dead. but mainly about the hair.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: TILL DEATH — dream smp [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128614
Kudos: 32





	body to flame

**Author's Note:**

> heyhey fuck canon!!!!! we hate canon!!!!  
> also body to flame is LITERALLY wilbur’s song. (along with eight by sleeping at last, courtesy of wilbur himself) BUT BODY TO FLAME!!!  
> the “i see you holding your breath with your arms outstretched/waiting for someone to come rip open your chest” ???? the “you take me aside/to solemnly confide/when it comes the time/you plan to give your body to the flame” ??????? chefs kiss

Wilbur hates having short hair. It doesn’t fit him, doesn’t frame his face in the way he wants it to. He remembers, ever since he was a kid, he had curls that laid over his forehead, covered his eyes in a curtain so he never had to make eye contact.

Eye contact makes him uneasy. Always has. Not in the way you’d usually think- no, it didn’t make him nervous, didn’t give him anxiety. It made him uneasy in the way walking up a flight of stairs after you’ve turned off the lights does, in the way staying underwater for just a little longer than your lungs can take does.

So when he comes back as Ghostbur with short hair, he’s reasonably pissed off. The problem with Ghostbur is that he isn’t _Wilbur_. It’s like Wilbur’s in the backseat of his body, shoved in a corner in his mind, unable to control his limbs or even speak his mind. Instead, there’s this shell of a man, replacing him, speaking to his friends, his family, his enemies.

He’s giving out blue crystals that rip emotions from your body, replacing sadness and depression and anxiety with an empty, hollow feeling Wilbur can only describe as lost. Because that’s all Ghostbur is, right? Lost. A spirit drifting in the overworld, a windchime clinking gently in the wind, a feather floating on a phantom breeze.

Ghostbur is lost, and he’s forgotten who Wilbur is. He separates himself from Wilbur’s alive consciousness, refuses to relate or connect himself to the fallen revolutionary in any way. He’s convinced Wilbur- he calls him _Alivebur_ , for God’s sake- is some awful, manipulative asshole who dedicated his life to the downfall of L’Manberg.

And the worst part? He’s _right_. Wilbur _was_ awful, and manipulative, and a complete asshole who dragged his little brother into a war at _sixteen_.

Tommy regrets ever implying that Ghostbur could be better than Wilbur. He was wrong, so fucking wrong. Because where Wilbur should stand is a wraith in a red beanie, the beanie Tommy gifted him for his twenty-first birthday.  
Where Wilbur should stand is a wraith in a yellow jumper, his brother’s favorite jumper.  
Where Wilbur should stand is a wraith holding Simone, _Wilbur’s_ beloved acoustic guitar, playing _Wilbur’s_ songs, singing the anthem _Wilbur_ wrote.

It all feels so wrong. It leaves an aftertaste in Tommy’s mouth, something he can only describe as ash and rot. It tastes like the smoke that rose from the rubble of L’Manberg, the smell of Schlatt’s body after he collapsed on the floor of the Camarvan.

He hates saying it, but he misses Wilbur. He really does. Misses his older brother, his best friend, his wayward protector. He misses Wilbur’s laugh, the sound that traveled all throughout the ravine of Pogtopia. He misses Wilbur’s voice, the lilting notes that enraptured everyone around him when he sang, enthralled the masses when he spoke of raising an empire, of lost kings, of the gods that oppressed their inferiors and the mortals who fought without mercy.

If Wilbur had the chance to go back, just for a second, to speak to someone in the overworld, free of Ghostbur’s chains, he’d apologize to Tommy. His little brother, his best friend, his devoted follower. He didn’t mean to empty Tommy’s soul, didn’t mean to fill him with lies of a perfect nation and his passing will.

 _Easily won, weary of losing, gullible_. Those are the words the ghosts whisper to Wilbur in the afterlife. After Tommy and Tubbo had won against Dream, he’d broken free of Ghostbur’s reins, broken free of the hands that kept him on an icy leash.  
_Easily won, weary of losing, gullible_. Wilbur finds himself in the afterlife while Tommy and Tubbo sit on _their_ bench, _their_ jukebox playing Cat, _their_ sun rising over _their_ land. He forces himself through that rip in space-time, wanting to talk to his brother one last time.  
_Easily won, weary of losing, gullible_. They bicker, as always. Wilbur tells him he’s proud of him, because he’s too scared to apologize.  
And Tommy tells him he’ll see him soon.

Tommy remembers wanting to be exactly like Wilbur when he was younger. Always trying to match his step, his stride. Always trying to stay elegant like Wilbur, eloquent like Wilbur. It’s hard not to look up to your older brother, especially a person like Wilbur.

A person who knows his worth, who knows he belongs. A person who’s rallied armies and fought countless monsters, sentient or not. A person who stores knowledge, who holds it in his mind, ready to bring out at any moment. A person who could argue for hours, a person who sung melodies, a person who led a nation into war with a wide smile and a bandage slapped across his face.

But when he sees Wilbur holding his breath, arms outstretched and thrown out wide in the button room, Philza standing over him with _his_ sword poised to plunge into his chest, Tommy regrets it.

When Wilbur pulled him aside in the shadows of Pogtopia, grim mirth swimming in his darkened eyes, he was ready.  
When Wilbur pulled him aside in the shadows of Pogtopia, his scarred hands trembling, he was ready.  
When Wilbur told him he planned to blow up L’Manberg, planned to give his body to the flame, Dream was ready.


End file.
